L'Arte del Balletto
by MusicandtheMirror
Summary: Gabriella left everything behind when she flew to England to join the Royal Ballet. When problems arise will she put her dreams on the line to help the older, enchanting choreographer, or will she do as expected and fall for the young, handsome dancer?


_A/N_

_Bonjour bookworms :) First things first, I think you're beyond amazing for clicking on this story, I'm praying it will live up to your expectations, if you had any in the first place of course, and that you continue reading after my drabble :) I'm training to be a ballet dancer, I have been since I was three so I based Gabriella's background partly on mine. It's every dancer's ambition to be accepted to the Royal Ballet. I'm not old enough yet to audition, though I've used a little artistic licence and allowed a 17 year old Gabriella to be accepted. My older sister was accepted there though and now she's touring Russia, so she gave me some idea of how life is when training all hours and becoming sweaty and horrible whilst still trying to maintain the perfection that is necessary. Pretty tough, so I'm attempting to portray that throughout this story. I hope you enjoy it and I guarantee there will be many, many twists in store. Please let me know what you think, Isla. x_

_L'Arte Del Balletto_

_**I think most dancers would agree that the art of ballet chooses the dancer, not the other way around.**_  
- Kevin McKenzie -

She had dreamed of this building. She had imagined entering through the giant, distinguished oak doors. She had pictured the magnificently superior velvet-covered staircase. She had visualised the majestic, dazzling chandeliers. She had envisaged the flurry of soft pink uniforms as they sped past in their haste to perfection. She was finally here. Here. Where she belonged.

Glancing back at the cold, wintry streets of England, Gabriella Elena Montez sucked in a shaky breath and advanced up the revered stone steps, cautiously stepping aside as a troupe of flawless individuals waltzed past her, immaculate in their appearance and clad in thick, cashmere coats. She gazed longingly after them as they sauntered down the dimly illuminated pavement, the streetlamps bestowing upon them a heavenly glow, deeming them untouchable. When her eyesight proved to be defeated by the whirling winter snow, Gabriella once again turned to face the remarkable building. The Royal Opera House. One of the world's most sacrosanct treasures. It was every dancer's aspiration, ever dancer's desire, every dancer's goal and ambition to attend, as was it hers.

When Gabriella turned three, Maria Montez had dutifully taken her daughter to ballet classes, assuming it was the 'thing to do' when one has a girl. Unbeknown to her then, was that little Gabriella was a natural dancer and encompassed a superior skill when moving across the stage. She could captivate an audience through the execution of the perfect pirouette. Her sleek, cocoa hair shone in its unspoiled bun, the smoky brilliance of her coffee coloured eyes were heavy lidded in her bliss. This was where she belonged.

Since then, Maria Montez had devoted her life towards providing her daughter with everything she needed. Such as the loss of an extended patio with heated flagstones, draping fairy lights, koi carp pond and white satin hammock in place of a 30ft by 30ft dancing hall complete with hard wood flooring, gold gilded handrails, floor to ceiling mirrors and surround sound music player. Maria made do with a plastic sun lounger on the balcony and a goldfish bowl in the hall. If it got cold, she wore slippers.

Gabriella was grateful for everything her mother had done for her, truly she was, but she couldn't find the strength within to forgive her this time. The boundary had been crossed, she had overstepped the mark and through refusing to move back, Gabriella had taken action, resulting in her presence here, in England, 2009, clad in a winter coat and clutching a suitcase of what she considered her prize possessions. This was it, she told herself, the beginning.

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He watched from his window as she climbed the steps he loved so dearly. Sat in his old, rickety rocking chair he pulled the blanket tighter around him, preventing any deathly wind from freezing his already chilled bones. The chair creaked as he leant back and observed the young girl, so casually graceful, as she loped towards the entrance. He shut his tired eyes and remembered the day when he first set foot inside the palace of dreams. It was an adventure, a perfect quest that his destiny called for. He dedicated himself to that way of life, he gave all he had, all he ever had a chance of having. He gave up a career, a wife, a family, his future. He gave it all away in place of pursuing his dream. Even now, with the holes in his socks and the fierce whistling of the wind as it tore through the cracks in his rundown old flat, he still didn't regret it. It was a passion, one he still possessed.

Upon opening his eyes, he saw the oak doors closing as the petite figure disappeared behind them. Another one on the path that led to two destinations, Success and Heartbreak. He prayed that for this little dancer, the beauty that he had watched gaze after the pompous professionals so longingly, it was the former.

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"You are here to learn ballet" announced the bespectacled director. "Ballet is your life now. Whatever you think you know, however good you think you are, here you are nothing. You know nothing. This is where your real knowledge of ballet begins. You will be dancers. You will learn moves you never knew existed, you will accomplish impossible feats, you will be stars."

The perfectly coiffed blonde behind him stepped forward, her eyes dancing over every new face.

"Dance is an hourly and daily discipline," she began in a firm yet beautiful voice, "you will rise before the sun and rest long after it sets. You will walk until your legs ache; you will run until your muscles throb, you will dance until your feet bleed. Ballet is an obsession, it's a dedication. Dancers are not great because of their talent; they are great because of their passion. Passion that overrides twinging backs; smarting eyes, stinging cuts, throbbing calves, painful joints, bloody feet and exhausted minds. It takes an athlete to dance, but it takes an artist to be a dancer. You must believe in ballet to be a true patron of it. That is your goal"

"There are three hundred of you. You have been separated into ten castes of thirty, each with an individual professor. Castes are referred to not in numerical order, but in alphabetical order regarding the great prima ballerinas in the history of ballet. Caste Legnani will be tutored by myself. Caste Kschessinskaya will be trained under Felicity Hawkman. Caste Ulanova by Katyana Polis. Caste Plisetskaya by Guillame Duchoven. Caste Alonso will be under the supervision of Olga Newman. Caste Markova by Penelope Markosvitz. Caste Fonteyn by Eliza Benedict. Caste Spira will be with Nicolas Thelon. Caste Gregory with Harriet Fortmeister and finally Caste Chauvire with Grayson Vine."

"There is one final caste;" the blonde, who Gabriella now knew to be named Felicity, said grandly "named after the greatest ballerina this world has ever seen. Caste Pavlova. To gain admission to this elite grade would require great skill and precision, aptness is essential and legerdemain is compulsory. There are only eight places available, each caste will be assessed continually over the next three months. If you are deemed worthy you will be elevated to this esteemed rank and will receive tutoring so expertly given that brilliance is sure to be your future. Anna Pavlova was a free spirit. She was beautiful, lithe, dedicated and gifted. She let nothing get in the way of her dancing. Let her be an inspiration to you all."

"Are there any questions?" the venerated director, Edward Knight, asked.

"Who will train those belonging to Caste Pavlova?" a petite redhead said from the back, her green eyes slanted in curiosity.

Felicity smiled, her perfect white teeth contrasting brilliantly with the pearl pink of her lips. She raised a dainty, French polished hand to pat her hair and observed the dancers once more.

"Why, Troy Bolton of course."


End file.
